The first chapter of the sixth story in the Quasar 169 science fiction series
I suppose it’s because their minds are so delightfully uncluttered by the weights of the adult world that I’m able to hone in on a child’s thoughts without even trying.
My knees grew abruptly weak as jelly, sagging of their own will, forcing me to either stop or drop. I chose the former. My stomach contracted and my nose stung as though I was on the verge of breaking into huge sobs right there in public. Beginning to tremble with rage and remorse, I slunk up beside an empty kiosk, out of the way of passing shoppers, and leaned against the dusty structure pretending there was something caught in my shoe while I scanned the faces of the crowds, seeking the most troubled one.
She was gorgeous. Long dark hair that shone like satin. A rosy tinge to her porcelain face. Gigantic blue eyes outlined with lustrous lashes. Jewel-pink tinted fingernails and lips the color of dawn-kissed snow.
I shook off the impressively passionate sensations as well as I could before cautiously approaching the troubled vision of youth and grace.
“Hi,” I said, stopping before her in a squat. “I’m Alex.”
She gasped, stepping away from me to glance wildly about.
I reached for one of her dainty hands and clutched it gently. “What’s your name?”
Her voice was so faint, I didn’t actually hear her speak, but then I didn’t need to. “Landi.”
“Landi what?”
“Milland,” she sniffled uncertainly, careful to avoid direct eye contact with me.
“That’s a first name I’ve never heard before. Are you out here Christmas shopping all by yourself?”
She smiled a little, thinking I must be an idiot. “No,” she replied a little sharply, a little condescendingly,
pulling away from me to plant herself squarely amidst a number of overstuffed shopping bags set beside the nearest
wall. “Waitin’ for my mom.”
Victoria’s Secret, Creative Chef, Face Forward, and Home Essence were the names printed across the heavy paper bags. Nothing that catered to a child her age. Her mind was blank at the moment, a little wary, but mostly empty, waiting to see what I would do next. We were standing in front of the women’s restrooms and the odor wafting our way whenever the door was opened was keenly unpleasant.
I stood and leaned against the wall beside the bundles. “Man am I beat. I’ve been shopping here all day
myself.”
She eyed me dubiously. “You don’t have a shopping bag.”
“I’m not very good at it.”
“Oh.”
“Are you excited about Christmas, Landi?”
“I...guess so.”
“Hmm,” I said, sensing her disparaging mood. “Not me. I never get many presents.”
There was an edge of tears caught in her throat as she pointed out, “Well, you’re all grown up.”
“Sure, yeah, but you don’t understand. I mean, I never get many gifts. Never have. Even when I was your
age.”
Now she peered inquisitively toward my face from beneath a thick fringe of shiny, crooked black bangs.
I looked away, lowered my voice, and tried to sound sad. “You see, my daddy...he wasn’t really very nice.”
"Did he hit you?”
“Um. Sort of. He gave my brother at least one present every year for Christmas and on his birthday, too,
but he never got one for me. And then one year he died, so only my brother and I could give each other gifts.”
Landi was appalled. “What about your mommy?”
“My mommy, er, went away when I was...how old are you? Six?” She nodded and I nodded back.
“I know what you mean,” she replied earnestly, touching the back of my left hand with a finger for
reassurance. “My daddy’s gone, too. I don’t know where. Sometimes he sends me letters with dollars in them.”
“Wow! That’s nice! Is that why you’re here? To buy things with all of the dollars he’s sent you?”
She clutched at my hand reflexively, finding me a kindred soul, and stood beside me with her head bowed.
“No. Mom takes them all and gets shoes and stuff. New dresses.”
“For you?” I already knew the answer. The little girl by my leg was clothed in a plain brown corduroy skirt and a little, off-white blouse showing from beneath her too-tight stained and faded coat. I saw her shoes would have to be replaced within the next month or so before they’d be forced to retire in a Glad bag. “Would you like a little money to spend?”
“No.” Releasing my hand, she sidestepped a few inches away from me, focusing upon my features sharply
now. “I’m not supposed to take candy—I mean, money from strangers.”
“Good for you.” When I patted her head, I disturbed the perfectly smooth, combed bangs, inadvertently
revealing a large brown and blue bruise running from her right eyebrow right up into her hairline. She reached up
panickedly to conceal it.
I ached because the mark’s origin was revealed to me when the little girl saw my eyes widen and recalled what was there and why she must keep it well hidden.
I carry no sympathy whatsoever for child abusers.
In one of my deep coat pockets was a tiny plush teddy bear with a red bow that had come with a bottle of perfume I’d selected as Dory Perandah’s holiday gift. I produced it, with some arcane gestures above the child’s head, in the center of my open palm.
“Mom wouldn’t like it,” Landi moaned after her initial delight quickly left her.
“Yes, but do you like it?”
She nodded unhappily.
“You could hide it.”
“No. It wouldn’t work. She’d find it and ask where I got it. Then she’d throw it away.”
Miserably, I slid the toy back into my pocket.
I was about to ask if she’d had her picture taken with Santa yet when the bathroom door opened once more and the child jolted in terror. The emotion was so overpowering, I nearly ran from the woman myself.
Mrs. Milland was just below average height with permed and dyed hair, enough makeup you might’ve thought she was here at the mall attending a sleazy cocktail party, lots of real gold and gemstone jewelry, and a real mink coat. She seized the child so suddenly that the girl dangled by one hand. “I’m sorry, Mommy! I’m sorry!” she shrieked, unsure of what she was even apologizing for. The bitch slapped the moppet’s face with a bony, thin hand heavily decorated with gold rings. I watched, aghast, as Landi went limp and doll-eyed in complete surrender, hanging there staring dully at the mall’s dirty tile floor.
The elder Milland lowered the child and affixed her evil intentions on me. “Who the hell are you and what do you think you’re doing talking to innocent little girls in a big, crowded mall?” The malice she directed at me caught me completely off guard.
“I was, I just, the little girl-”
She slapped her daughter again for good measure, then squatted slightly to rasp, “Haven’t I told you never to talk to strangers? Haven’t I? Look at me, Goddamn it! Answer me! Haven’t I?”
When she was no longer being physically shaken, the child responded in a forced, distant squeak, “Yes.”
“I-I was just talking to her a little, ma’am. She was standing here all alone in the mall...I didn’t know if she was lost or-”
“Some excuse. What’s your name? I’m reporting this to security!”
Moving slowly, but deliberately, I moved my coat aside to display my badge case and even lifted the flap
briefly, exposing a quick flash of gold.
She paused to appraise me. Nice clothes, she thought. Likes children. Genuine Italian shoes. A little
rough, but not completely unattractive. She attempted to assess my age. I smiled gently, pretending I had no idea
what she was up to. A manicured talon was extended toward me. “Then I guess I really should be thanking you,
Officer-?”
“Heath. Jameson Heath.” I snuck a wink at Landi.
“Heath. That sounds like education and money.” When she laughed, she exposed tobacco-stained teeth. “I hope to see you around again, Mr. Heath.” She thought I was mall security and couldn’t give a rat’s ass one way or
the other. I helped gather her shopping bags, helping myself to something else, too. “Happy Holidays!”
“Rot in Hell,” I replied cheerfully, flashing my most charming smile.
She nodded as she walked off, dragging her daughter along, unsure of what I might’ve said over the murmur of the crowd.
I stalked swiftly back into the flow of bodies, examining my find. All of the cash and coins vanished into the nearest Salvation Army kettle, getting me blessed by an aproned woman ringing a bell whose clapper had been replaced with a paper clip. I sorted through the credit cards, deciding which ones to cancel first, then gazed at the
information on the driver’s license so I’d know the name and address well when I reported the bitch to Social Services.
Read more in the pages of
Quasar 169: Illusions
available wherever
fine books are sold.
MONSTROSITY n. 1. That which deviates greatly from the norm in appearance or structure. 2. The quality or character of being abnormal; hideous; frightful; shocking.
Pieces of Eight, Part II is an eclectic collection of eight imaginative novellas that complement the eight tales that appeared in Pieces of Eight. The selections are a blend of different short story/novella plots and themes. Science-fiction, paranorm
